Read Online The Curiosities (Carolrhoda Ya) by Brenna Yovanoff Tessa Gratton Maggie Stiefvater - Free Book Online Page A
Ads: Link
idiots.” The boy throws up his arms.
From the doorway, caught between the warmth of the hall and the early spring chill at her back, Morgen hides a smile behind her fingers. She has heard stories in the wind and chatter from the pixies about this new king. That on the battlefield he is unrecognizable in his wrath, but his mercy gathers men and loyalty at an uncommon rate. Mostly, though, she has heard that the land loves him, too.
“We have wintered here,” the wizard says, “and should move on so that the fields may be replanted.”
Clamor rises from the gathered lords, and as they argue, Morgen watches the king. He is younger than she expected, and he observes the cacophony with his mouth turned down in a furious pout. A twisted iron and copper ring sits heavily about his neck. Tilting his head, he stares up at the low roof beams, at a pair of mourning doves huddled in the shadows beside the smoke hole. Just as Morgen thinks, perhaps, the stories have exaggerated his command, he stomps up onto his chair and from there onto the table itself, planting his boots so hard chunks of dirt fall off the heels and skitter across the wood.
Silence cuts through the hall. The boy-king says quietly, so they have to listen, “I am leaving and taking my court with me. I will not ruin this valley. We will find a better place to camp until the summer warring.”
Without waiting for an answer, he hops off the table, landing with his knees bent and balanced. Flicking his hand at the wizard, he strides toward Morgen. She steps aside, but the wizard says, “Arthur.”
The king stops and notices her. “Who is this?”
“Morgen, Arthur. She’s come to help with the table.”
“The faerie?” Arthur walks the final space between them and peers at her, hair to toes. “You don’t have shoes.”
“You don’t have a beard,” she says.
His scowl opens up and he laughs. “Welcome to my court, Morgen the Faerie.”
. . .
Traveling with Arthur is slower than traveling with the wind, but soon they arrive at the fort where the table will be forged.
A great wooden hall rises from behind an ancient ring of earth, and Morgen can smell the sea. It was a fort belonging to a lost tribe, Myrddin tells her, used by the Romans to corral cattle, and rebuilt by Arthur’s father’s father. From the cliffs they can see in all directions, but the ground is fertile and the place will do well for their magics. Earth and sea and sky, coming together.
She closes her eyes and digs her toes into the grass. It is as the wizard says. Here she can build a hearth for the deepest magic.
. . .
They begin with a slab of stone cut from the cliffside and worn smooth by a thousand crashing salt waves. All the lords and Arthur himself hold the ropes that drag it over rolling logs, up and up and up from the beach. “This will be a symbol of our rule, of the wholeness and greatness of our island,” he declares over a feast, with torches licking the shadows away and fat popping in a dozen bonfires.
. . .
Morgen is given a gown of smooth red wool and a girdle of linked mother-of-pearl, but even as she walks the halls of the king she refuses shoes. In the great hall, where the round slab is raised up by squat oaken pillars, she crawls over and beneath it, etching tiny words around and around and around again, while the wizard cuts the thick spiral where the iron will be laid.
She kneels beneath the slab in the morning when the young sun spills in through the doors at just an angle to light the underside so she can work. A shadow flashes over her runes, and she glances at the boots pacing slowly around the table, scuffed leather and chunks of mud trailing in their wake.
A whisper of skin on stone tells her Arthur runs his fingers along the edge of the table as he walks around it. She holds herself still, uncertain if he came here to be alone, until the king releases a sigh full of sorrow.
“Why does my table make you sad?” she says.
“Morgen?”
From the doorway, caught between the warmth of the hall and the early spring chill at her back, Morgen hides a smile behind her fingers. She has heard stories in the wind and chatter from the pixies about this new king. That on the battlefield he is unrecognizable in his wrath, but his mercy gathers men and loyalty at an uncommon rate. Mostly, though, she has heard that the land loves him, too.
“We have wintered here,” the wizard says, “and should move on so that the fields may be replanted.”
Clamor rises from the gathered lords, and as they argue, Morgen watches the king. He is younger than she expected, and he observes the cacophony with his mouth turned down in a furious pout. A twisted iron and copper ring sits heavily about his neck. Tilting his head, he stares up at the low roof beams, at a pair of mourning doves huddled in the shadows beside the smoke hole. Just as Morgen thinks, perhaps, the stories have exaggerated his command, he stomps up onto his chair and from there onto the table itself, planting his boots so hard chunks of dirt fall off the heels and skitter across the wood.
Silence cuts through the hall. The boy-king says quietly, so they have to listen, “I am leaving and taking my court with me. I will not ruin this valley. We will find a better place to camp until the summer warring.”
Without waiting for an answer, he hops off the table, landing with his knees bent and balanced. Flicking his hand at the wizard, he strides toward Morgen. She steps aside, but the wizard says, “Arthur.”
The king stops and notices her. “Who is this?”
“Morgen, Arthur. She’s come to help with the table.”
“The faerie?” Arthur walks the final space between them and peers at her, hair to toes. “You don’t have shoes.”
“You don’t have a beard,” she says.
His scowl opens up and he laughs. “Welcome to my court, Morgen the Faerie.”
. . .
Traveling with Arthur is slower than traveling with the wind, but soon they arrive at the fort where the table will be forged.
A great wooden hall rises from behind an ancient ring of earth, and Morgen can smell the sea. It was a fort belonging to a lost tribe, Myrddin tells her, used by the Romans to corral cattle, and rebuilt by Arthur’s father’s father. From the cliffs they can see in all directions, but the ground is fertile and the place will do well for their magics. Earth and sea and sky, coming together.
She closes her eyes and digs her toes into the grass. It is as the wizard says. Here she can build a hearth for the deepest magic.
. . .
They begin with a slab of stone cut from the cliffside and worn smooth by a thousand crashing salt waves. All the lords and Arthur himself hold the ropes that drag it over rolling logs, up and up and up from the beach. “This will be a symbol of our rule, of the wholeness and greatness of our island,” he declares over a feast, with torches licking the shadows away and fat popping in a dozen bonfires.
. . .
Morgen is given a gown of smooth red wool and a girdle of linked mother-of-pearl, but even as she walks the halls of the king she refuses shoes. In the great hall, where the round slab is raised up by squat oaken pillars, she crawls over and beneath it, etching tiny words around and around and around again, while the wizard cuts the thick spiral where the iron will be laid.
She kneels beneath the slab in the morning when the young sun spills in through the doors at just an angle to light the underside so she can work. A shadow flashes over her runes, and she glances at the boots pacing slowly around the table, scuffed leather and chunks of mud trailing in their wake.
A whisper of skin on stone tells her Arthur runs his fingers along the edge of the table as he walks around it. She holds herself still, uncertain if he came here to be alone, until the king releases a sigh full of sorrow.
“Why does my table make you sad?” she says.
“Morgen?”
Similar Books
Behind the Yellow Tape: On the Road With Some of America's Hardest Working Crime Scene Investigators
Jarrett Hallcox, Amy Welch
